Waves
by Jonesn
Summary: My life had always been a sea of carefully laid plans, until he blew through. Cool and quiet, like the calm before the storm. It was brewing.


**Disclaimer:** The author does not own any publicly recognizable entities herein. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Beta/Pre-reader: **SunflowerFran/Daphodill

**My entry for Lyrics to Life Contest - 3rd place judges vote **

**Thank you to all who voted.**

**Songspiration:** Waves by Metric **www dot youtube dot com / watch?v=F7nRrb8bv4I**

* * *

The drive from Seattle had been long and uneventful, much like my life, but with rows and rows of full, green trees to lead the way.

Not that I'd never had any direction. Being an only child, I had more than my fair share. However, there came a time in every parent's life when they had to let go, give up control and let you live yours.

It was about time I started living mine. Only thing was, I didn't know how much living I'd get done in the sleepy town of Clallam Bay.

A cloudy, coastal community known for its fishing and logging, I supposed an occasional sunny day was the most exciting thing that happened around here. Add on the fun fact that my rental property sat atop an unpaved, treacherous mountain, and I was in for some good times.

Slowing turning off the main stretch, I coasted down a side road, coming to a dead stop half a mile farther.

The house wasn't hard to find on that short stretch of mud. Surrounded by thick, green foliage, its white wash finish stuck out like a sore thumb in the slippery muck.

Pulling up beside a patch of grass, I cut the engine, taking my time before climbing out from the cramped confines of the car. It hadn't sunk in until just then - that this was really happening - sitting in my mother's hand-me-down Volvo, staring at a flower box hanging from a side window. It was adorable; its posy of white daisies complementing the blue shutters perfectly. Daisies that would no doubt die, seeing as I hadn't the first clue how to tend to them. My parents had failed me in that aspect, prepared me for nothing - not bills, not gardening, not my sudden need for distance and independence.

Nothing.

Suddenly this good idea, didn't seem so good anymore, as I climbed out and stretched, taking a nice, deep breath to calm my worked nerves. It helped a little, easing the queasiness lining my empty stomach. The air was so much lighter and cleaner compared to the city. The perfect mixture of salty and sweet blowing in from the ocean.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" A feminine voice mused, pulling my attention from the cliffside view.

"Yes, very," I agreed, briefly looking back to the shiny ripples of water, while she opened the front door, inviting me in with a wave of an arm.

"You must be Bella, no?"

"Yes."

Shaking my hand, she introduced herself as Lea, the landlord, and at my service twenty-four seven since I happened to be her saving grace. Apparently, no one but my neighbor and I wanted to live a mile past nothing, on top of a mountain in the middle of nowhere.

"Have a look around."

Thanking her, I stepped further inside, doing a full sweep of the living room. Three walls the color of almond creme encased a teal-blue couch, and a wicker chaise lounge. The throw rug was woven with curved lines of fading blue hues, resembling the waves of the surrounding seawater, tying in loose pieces of knobby, natural wood.

It was perfect.

Not too big, not too small. Sophisticated, and yet affordable for a nearly broke, college graduate the first time on her own.

"The coffee table, two side tables, and bookcase were all handmade by my brother, Seth. All picked from the beach down there, all deadwood. Beautiful, aren't they?"

Nodding, I agreed. "Very."

"I'll have to introduce you."

Returning her smile, I turned back to peruse the mismatched books lazily leaning on the shelves. Faulkner, Stephen King, _Norah Roberts_ ... interesting collection. Their spines were bent, but I wondered if she really read, or just used them as props after grabbing an armful out of a Goodwill bargain bin.

"He's just recently single, found out his girlfriend had hooked up with one of the local fishermen that blow through with the seasonal stink." Grimacing, she shrugged. "I never really liked her anyway."

_Great_.

A guy with a bruised ego and a chip on his suspicious shoulder. That was all I needed.

Opening her mouth, she was quick to shut it when a concerning commotion came from the neighboring house. We both shuffled out the open, front door, cringing as the horrifying sound got louder.

The words the livid blonde spewed were incomprehensible, given the pitch of her ear-piercing screams. The shirtless man standing on the porch didn't seem to pay her any mind, toasting us as he took a seat on the weather-worn rocking chair, casually sipping from his coffee cup.

"Such an ass," Lea sighed, turning to usher me back into the house and away from the free show.

"You know him?" I asked, peeking around her and out the side window to get another look at his exposed, tan skin. My God. The man was all muscle.

Nodding she motioned for me to follow her to the kitchen where I cozied into the corner cubby, trying to decide whether or not I liked the sea-foam green while Leah stirred up a couple cups of instant tea.

"I don't really _know_ him, so much as heard of him," she started, folding onto the bench opposite me and sliding a mug across the table. Taking a small sip, she cleared her throat before continuing. "We went to the same high school, but he was a couple years ahead of me. Just your typical townie who couldn't get out and ended up following in his father's footsteps." Shrugging she rested her elbows on the table, palming the mug with both hands. Bringing the edge back up, she paused against her lips. "He's a fisherman."

_The _fisherman? I itched to ask, but refrained, not wanting to initiate any awkward conversation. But as it turned out, Leah didn't need very much encouragement, freely offering up the cure to my curiosity with a pointed stare.

"_The _fisherman."

The remainder of my morning was like a crash course in Clallam Bay 101. Lea knew a lot about the small, sleepy town. Even more so of its scandals. And for not knowing the _lady killer_ next door, she seemed to know an awful lot about him.

"Paul, Paul Lahote. Emphasis on the '_hot_,'" she informed, air quotations and all. "At least, that's how all the local bait pronounces it."

"Local bait?" I echoed, having an inkling, but not quite sure I knew what or whom she was referring.

Nodding, she swallowed her last sip. "Yeah, the salmon sluts, the halibut whores," she counted off. "You know, girls willing to lie on their backs and spread wide for the seasonal scum."

Brows raised, I nodded in understanding. Impressed with the imaginative alliteration, but a little put off by the venom bit into it. I was beginning to think she didn't care much for the hard working folk that kept this town afloat.

No doubt, there was a good story there.

"Well, I should get going, let you hop to it. School starts soon, no?" she asked, breaking the moment of uncomfortable silence and sliding from the bench. I walked her to the front door.

"Yep, Monday's my first day."

My stomach flipped with the realization that today was Saturday, and that I had less than two days to prepare for my first job ever - if you didn't count cataloging in the library at Argosy University in Seattle. Which I didn't.

Wishing me luck, she descended the stairs, turning back to nod her head towards Paul's porch, and assuring me I shouldn't have a problem.

"Besides the occasional shrill shriek from a one night stand, scorned, it stays pretty quiet around here," she reassured. "He's gone more than he's not. Pretty sure they're heading back out tomorrow."

With that, she plopped down into her car, waving as she drove by. I sat on the porch swing, gazing from the cliffs to the source of my most recent entertainment; a little bummed that the blonde was gone, leaving the lone sailor to sit and sip in silence.

It wasn't my intention to creep him out so soon, but I couldn't keep my eyes off his distracting bulges of muscle. So to look less obvious, I slightly turned my head, all the while keeping my eye on the man next door, watching as he rocked back and forth.

It was either the strong breeze, or my inability to be discreet that caused him to retreat. Either way, he wasn't out there much longer; downing the last of his drink as he stood and stretched, playfully saluting me before disappearing inside the pitiful shack.

* * *

The rain was what woke me. The tap, tap, tapping of tiny droplets splattering against my window. Crawling on all fours across the bed, I pried the painted seal open, grimacing as it squeaked, reminding me of the scraping sound of long fingernails across a chalkboard. After a couple of tries at keeping the pane from falling back down, I picked up a small piece of wood, and nuzzled it into the frame to prop it open.

Resting my chin on top of my folded arms, I closed my eyes, and breathed in deeply.

I loved the rain. Loved the sound and the smell of it - even more so here. It was so much cleaner; strong and palatable, with a fresh vapor so flavorful I could almost taste it.

Through the rhythmic splashes of the falling rain water, I heard the slam of a screen door and my eyes snapped open to find his tall frame outlined in the blurry moonlight. Even at this ungodly hour his movement was lithe and concise, unhindered by the bulkiness of his hooded, gray sweatshirt, or the constricting, brown suspenders that hooked into a pair of rigid, orange overalls. The black beanie fit snugly on top of his head, bringing out the chisel of his high cheekbones, and the strong square of his jaw.

My line of sight was cut off when he climbed into the cab of his rusted, red truck. I ducked out of the beam of his glaring headlights, lying down on my back to watch them dance across the periwinkle walls. And I laid there long after he'd gone just thinking. Still thinking of him.

* * *

"You ready for this?" Emily, the always helpful, always going out of her way to make me feel welcome, second grade teacher asked, as she poked her head in from the hallway. I waved her closer to my desk.

To tell the truth, I wasn't ready. I was more than a little antsy since it was my first field trip as the grown-up in charge, and my stomach was in knots.

Not only was I entrusted with the well-being of fifty first graders, I was hoping to catch a glimpse of my neighbor. It had been two weeks since I spied him fleeing at the dead of night in the middle of a rainstorm. Things were getting pretty boring without him and the blonde hanging around. And while my view of the ocean did fine to hold my attention, the well-worked muscles of a man wouldn't have been all that bothersome to look at either.

"The way I look at it," she whispered, leaning in close to keep the little ones from hearing. "This is a treat for all of us. Not only do the kids get to learn, and touch slimy, scaly things, but we get to gawk at all the eye candy that caught them."

Grinning like a fool, she winked, and handed me a long line of braided twine.

"So, let's go."

One by one, I instructed my students to hold onto the rope, that under no uncertain circumstance were they to let go of it, perpetually repeating those same instructions as we marched down the steep hill leading to the harbor.

It was a beautiful September day; breezy and warm, not too cool in the shade. Stepping onto the pier, I shielded my eyes from the sun as it shimmered off the rippling wakes of water, breathing in the salty scent blowing off the ocean with the wind. The kids appreciated it in their own way, mimicking the seagulls squawk. Oohing and awing, as they swooped down to scoop up a fish, and then soar over the waves. While the captain of a commercial fishing boat told slightly harrowing stories of the sea, Emily whispered in my ear, calling dibs on every manly man she saw.

"Oh, two o'clock. What about him?"

Lowering her hand with mine, I silently told her to stop pointing, and calm the hell down. I knew where two o'clock was. I also knew it was him, the one that I was hoping to see. He was wearing the same outfit as the night he left, but time had added a hint of scruff.

My heart sped as he hoisted a big crate from the boat, and set it back down on dry land, looking up to catch me staring.

Holding his gaze, I startled when the soft spoken captain shouted, "_There she blows," _whirling back toward the kids to count and then recount their heads. It took me a moment to gather my bearings, and when I looked back to where he had been standing, I found myself disappointed that he'd already gone.

* * *

For seven whole days, he sat on his porch sipping coffee, waving goodbye as I left for school, saluting a retiring hello when I returned. It became our routine - friendly waves and obliging nods, as each of us came and went.

No words were ever spoken, which was fine by me. I was perfectly content with just having him around to swap silent exchanges. Those two weeks had been surprisingly lonely on the top of that secluded mountain top. Just having him next door was comforting enough.

Not that I was disappointed or anything, but there were no disturbances during his brief stint at home. Not one blonde, brunette, redhead or otherwise, had hung around long enough to make a fuss, sneaking off in the early morning hours. The squeak of the screen door usually alerted me to each walk of shame, stirring an uncomfortable feeling inside of my chest and stomach.

I think I knew the time was coming for him to leave again from the drabby day's drizzle. So it was no surprise that I woke that eighth morning to the thunder and the rain. The sound of a screen door slamming, as a bright bolt of lightning lit up the stormy sky.

It only seemed to rain on the days he left.

* * *

The life of a fisherman was tiresome and trying, especially for the women who loved them. You could feel it in the air - the sadness, the longing - while walking along the empty docks.

Some went there to cry. Others just stared, squinting out into the big, wide blue, but all of them prayed.

I felt out of place during my walks on the pier, almost as if I were intruding, waiting for a man that wasn't mine. It wasn't often one of them lost his life to the dangers of the trade, but when it happened, it happened to the entire town.

News broke on a sunny Sunday afternoon that a crabber had capsized just off the coast of King Cove, Alaska, taking the lives of three of our teachers' loved ones. The school closed, not just to mourn, but we were short staffed. I was losing my mind not having anything to do, just sitting around mourning for my new found friends and worrying over Paul. Day and night, I wracked my brain for the name painted on the side of his boat, tempted to call Leah and ask if she happened to know. Did he even crab? I didn't know. And for three whole days I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, pacing a permanent line in the rug on the living room floor.

I didn't know what was pulling me to him, causing this yearning deep inside. Maybe it was because I was used to having someone around. Maybe it was because he seemed as lonely as I felt. Either way, my heart settled back down into my chest when he finally came home two days later.

Sitting on the porch swing, I had heard his truck before I saw it putter over the small hill, where it stalled and then restarted, parking in the sparse gravel alongside his house. When he waved, I waved, biting the end of my thumbnail as he grabbed his duffel bag from the bed, turned to stomp up three, short steps, and then disappeared through the front door.

I hadn't seen him since, hadn't seen anyone coming or going. In fact, I hadn't heard one peep, not one shuffle, not one squeak of a screen door. To be honest, it kind of had me concerned, wondering if he was okay, as I distractedly swept dried dirt off the front steps.

"Mornin'."

Startled, I gripped the frayed handle, and a sharp piece of wood painfully pierced my skin.

"Shit," we both hissed, as I dropped the broom and he caught it, propping it against the siding, before reaching out for my hand. Taking it in his, he thoroughly looked it over, holding me still when I jerked back, as he lightly ran his thumb over the site of the splinter.

"You got tweezers?" he asked, the deep tenor of his voice vibrating from his fingers and into mine. The pads were rough and calloused with hard work and occupational wear, yet unexpectedly gentle as he rubbed the palm of my hand, lazily thumbing soothing circles. My hand was so much smaller than his.

"Uh …" No longer trusting my voice, I shook my head, sucking in a breath, as he ducked down, and took my finger into his mouth. Too shocked to stop him, heat radiated through me from the warmth of his wet tongue. The light scrape of his teeth making my entire body tingle and then go numb.

All we'd ever done before this moment was to say a silent hello; me being too timid to take it any further, and now my finger was in his mouth?

With a quick nip, the pain was sudden, yet fleeting; gone before I automatically flinched and grabbed hold of his bicep. I tried not to focus on his lips, how they slightly pouted, how pink they looked next to his russet skin. It was smoother around his mouth, wrinkling slightly at the tired corner of his eyes. Tightening my grip on the bulge of his flexed muscle, I fought the instinct to close my eyes, as his tongue ran over the superficial flesh wound. I lost that fight when he sucked lightly, releasing my finger to spit the shard out and onto the ground.

"Better?" he asked, easing the pad of his thumb back and forth over the broken skin. I nodded, no longer feeling it stick like the first time. A tingle ran down my spine when his brown eyes met mine.

"Good. Now if only my morning wood was that easy to get rid of."

My reaction was between a cough and a surprised guffaw. His wide, white smile triggering my own. Only then did he give me back my hand, so I could promptly cross my arms over my chest to keep from touching my over-heated cheeks.

"Good one," I commended. "That was a good one."

"You liked that, huh?"

Skin on fire, I nodded, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear before smiling down at the ground.

Yeah, I liked that.

"Well there's plenty more where that came from. I can promise you that," he assured, holding his hand back out for me to take. "The name's Paul, Paul Lahote," he introduced, no emphasis on the hot. In fact, it was quite the opposite, as if he were correcting any alternate pronunciation I may have heard.

Sliding my hand back into his, I looked up.

"Bella, Bella Swan."

* * *

The following week I saw Paul every day.

I spoke to Paul every day.

Every morning he'd sit on the porch, rocking in his rocking chair, sipping a cup of coffee. Every afternoon he'd be covered in grease from working on his truck. And every evening he'd shower and shave, inviting himself over for dinner to hash out the oh-so-interesting happenings of my day.

I happily told him about reading corner, and showed him the finger paintings; incredibly satisfied to hear him laughing when I repeated the darndest things that the kids would say.

With little coaxing, I told him about my boring life back home. And in return, he told me about his interesting one at sea. It was so much better than a fleeting smile and a wave.

Being with him made me happy. He and his playful nature put an ache in my cheeks, and me at ease.

He made me laugh.

He made me want to cry.

"I'm headin' back out tomorrow," Paul informed, not bothering to cover his mouth full of lasagna. Put off by the unexpected tightness in my chest, I couldn't feel bothered enough to be grossed out.

I was going to worry about him.

I was going to miss him.

And stupidly I wondered if he was going to miss me, too. Though, I'd never ask.

"You gonna miss me?"

Lowering my glass from my lips, I looked down and then back up, swallowing the wine idling on my tongue.

"Yeah, you're gonna miss me."

My belly flipped with his intuition, and I almost choked.

"I think you've had one too many," I diverted, uselessly pursing at his toothy grin. His smile always ended up making me smile.

"No, no," he chuckled. "Not too many." Rubbing his chin, he rested his elbows. Crossing his arms on top of the table, he mimicked my stance. "I haven't had nearly enough."

Glancing down at his quirked lips, I lost the stare-off, not quite sure if that was a come on or a put down. I highly doubted Paul was capable of the latter, seeing as he was a professed lady killer, and all.

Leah was right except for one thing ...

Paul was a good guy.

"I should go, gotta head out early." Standing, he stretched high above his head, raising the black hem of his cocky "_Fishermen have the best lines"_ tee.

There was no use in trying not to look.

It was impossible.

He was impossible not to look at, with a stomach as tan as the rest of him. I realized he was of pure, Native American heritage, not only because he had told me, but because I could tell. His hair was the blackest of black. The outline of his square jaw bringing a whole new meaning to the shape. His brown eyes so deep, they glimmered like a display of fluorescent-lit onyx. The depressed bridge of his nose only enhanced the size of his pink lips that spread out, and into a knowing smile that I could see in my periphery.

My belly sunk, just like the black patch of hair peeking out from the waist of his jeans. "The life of a sailor," he groaned.

"You don't like being married?" I asked, watching as one brow rose, and his smile melted into a questioning grin.

"What, you've never heard that saying, "A sailor married to the sea?"

Shaking his head, he blew out a chuckle.

"No, and I don't remember making any lifelong vows," he amended, crossing his arms over his chest. "I do plan to retire."

His stance made him seem extra broad and tall in the dimmed mood lighting, his smile lazy and inviting. I wasn't ready for him to leave yet. We were just getting to know each other. And I wanted to know more, wanted to keep this easy conversation going. But before I could carry on with our playful banter, and ask him the typical age of retirement for a career fisherman, he threw me for another loop, nearly leaving me speechless.

"Can I write you while I'm away?"

* * *

It stormed the whole first week of Paul's departure, only clearing when the first letter arrived. I stared at the stained parchment on the walk up to the house, trying not to be over-eager in opening the envelope. I was overthinking, too wrapped up in where he'd touched it with his hands, how he probably licked the flap to seal it shut. My heart swelled knowing he even took the time to pick up a pen, and actually write me. In this day and age, the concept of letter writing was so foreign.

Setting the rest of the mail on the table just inside the door, I took a seat on the porch swing, wedged a finger under the edge of the envelope and carefully pried the seal open, sliding it along the dried glue that had also felt the wet heat of his tongue.

I took my time unfolding the paper, looking out at the ocean, before turning back to read.

_Dear Bella,_

My heart skipped with the sentiment.

_I'm pretty sure this is the first letter I've ever written that wasn't a mandatory assignment for Mrs. Meyer's. (She was my English teacher senior year, and made us all write a letter to our futures selves)._

_Anyway, I think mine went something like this …_

_Dear Paul,_

_It's you, Paul. I know you're rolling your eyes right now, and I'm right there with ya, because seriously, who writes themselves a letter? Am I right? Anyway, have fun, drink lots of beer, and … well, you know … (other stupid things that a stupid kid would write to himself that I won't tarnish your beautiful eyes with. I'll keep my stupidity stored up and safe for your cute, little ears since I know you like it and all). I obviously got plenty._

_Paul_

Smiling down, I reread and reread, feeling absolutely giddy that he said I had beautiful eyes and cute, little ears. Who cared if they weren't the fanciest of words in the world? They were his, and he had written them for me. I would take them. I would take all of them to come.

It was another week before I got the next letter.

Again I sat on the porch, and opened it carefully, thinking inappropriately about his hands and mouth, where they touched the paper, where I wanted them to touch me.

Every letter sounded more personal than the last; the silly and lighthearted, deepening to private thoughts, and growing feelings. Every week a new letter came, telling me more and more about the man and his life, and I was beginning to wonder if he was ever coming back.

I received the last letter the day that he did.

_Dear Bella,_

_The stars out in the middle of the ocean are so bright I don't even need a lamp or flashlight to write this. I wish you could see it. Hell, maybe you will. Maybe we could rent a boat for a day. We could take it out, and I could show you. Would you like that?_

Uselessly nodding to nobody, I kept reading.

_Anyway, I was thinking about that letter (the stupid one I told you about) This is usually about the time I think about it, always at night, like now … I don't know if I already told you or not, but, here it is … I failed, dropped out of school and started fishing with my dad. And I often wonder if I rewrote that letter like she asked me to, if my life would have turned out any differently, if I would have gotten out of that nowhere town I'm still existing in, and actually been somebody. And I can honestly say that from the day you moved in, I don't wonder so much anymore._

_Thinking of you,_

_Paul_

Folding the letter, I stuffed it back into the envelope, my stomach fluttering with the putter of his truck coming down the dirt drive.

It had been nearly two months since I had last seen him, two minutes since I had read his last letter - the one that practically told me I was worth detouring his life for. That _was _what he was saying, wasn't it?

Smiling, I offered a wave that he returned, before grabbing his bag, climbing three short steps, and disappearing through his front door.

I couldn't help but feel a little hurt at his indifference to seeing me, like a tiny piece of happiness had been chipped from my heart. Especially after all those letters. Stupidly thinking that perhaps they meant as much to him as they did to me. But I shook it off, knowing he would want to take a shower and shave. Though, I didn't care if he smelled like fish. It was when he didn't show up for dinner, that I let the hurt sink back in again.

Wrapping up a plate, I sucked it up, not wanting to sit and sulk. Maybe he wanted me to make the first move. He had revealed a lot about himself in just a few letters, and it wasn't like I could reciprocate and write him back. He was in the middle of the ocean, using up his land time in order to mail me insanely sweet letters.

I felt kind of selfish for not running to him like a patiently waiting girlfriend, and jumping into his arms as soon as I saw him pull up.

I mean, I wanted to.

I just didn't know if _he_ wanted me to.

Maybe he had wanted me to.

After knocking for a good ten minutes, I lowered myself to banging on the window, which I didn't really want to do.

I didn't want to be that girl - the one that couldn't take a hint.

I could take a hint.

Was this a hint?

Feeling like maybe it was, I took it, turned tail and headed back to my house.

Even after hours of cleaning, I still couldn't sleep, confused as to why he would write the entire time he was gone and then choose to practically ignore me.

Lying in bed, I tossed and turned. My mind wandering, bouncing back and forth from him to the blonde, to all the women he'd probably ever been with. I wondered how many of them there actually were. How many more there would be. The thought made me sick, made me flip to my side to cradle and calm my stomach.

* * *

The fact that he wasn't sitting on his porch the next morning had done me in. That, and the lack of sleep. Both weighed heavily, nearly causing me to snap at what usually endeared me to my students. My mood only slightly improved once the day was finally over, and I got home finding my second wind and a note sticking out of my screen door.

Not bothering to walk the extra three feet to the porch swing, I barged inside, threw my shit on the floor, and devoured the few words that informed me it was his birthday. He was having a party tonight, and I was invited.

* * *

By nine-thirty the party was booming. And I mean like, literally booming; the bass of his speakers shaking my walls.

I had been dressed and ready for practically three hours. Changing and then re-changing my mind. Curling and then re-curling my hair. And now I was sitting on my bed, contemplating just lying down and trying to fall asleep in the short, strapless sundress. Blue wasn't really my color anyway, and I was showing too much leg, too much cleavage.

Twiddling my thumbs, I sat and stared at the dark spot in the wood floor that strangely enough, resembled Dr. Finkelstein from 'The Nightmare Before Christmas,' wondering why I'd never noticed it before.

That was it.

I was going.

Pushing myself off the bed, I adjusted my skirt, made my way out the door, and across the lawn, fussing with my hair the entire way, trying to make it look naturally windblown and tousled.

_Oh, you're having a party? I didn't notice._

Breezing past mingling couples, and through the open door, my goal was to act pleasant, but nonchalant - like him; like I didn't know him, because obviously, I didn't.

I didn't know the man leaning against his kitchen counter, sipping from a solo cup, letting the leggy blonde hang all over him.

My stomach turned as _I _did, heading back out the way I came in, when something warm wrapped around my wrist, and pulled me into an adjoining room, shutting the door behind us. Pushing me up against the wall, his lips found my neck.

"Jesus, fuck, you look good," he murmured, his hot breath heating my skin. Too caught up in the moment, I forgot my anger and the pangs of jealousy, running my hands up his arms and into his hair. It was softer than I imagined, like smooth, black silk sliding between my fingers.

His palms felt large and demanding, roaming down my waist. They lit a fire over my hips, running the flames back up the insides of my thighs. I spread further, biting back a moan, as his fingers skimmed, dipping just under the edges of my panties.

I was aching for him, had been for a lot longer than two months, a lot longer than these last few minutes of being drunkenly mauled.

Shit, he was drunk.

"You're drunk," I accused, hissing when his teeth dug into my shoulder. He soothingly kissed where he bit.

"I'm good," he rasped, lifting the hem of my dress and palming my ass, pressing his groin between my legs; a few swivels of my hips and I could come. "I missed you."

Huffing out a breathy laugh, I loosened my hands from his hair to rest them against his chest.

"Funny. You didn't seem to miss me all that much sober," I mused, pushing lightly against him. He didn't take the hint, only pushing harder into me. I bit back another moan. No way was I was giving him the satisfaction of knowing how good he felt.

"I've been meaning to talk to you, just needed some sleep," he swore, his lips working their way back up to softly sweep across my jaw.

I wanted to believe him; the deep tenor of his voice vibrating my bones and making me dizzy. I didn't want to be mad at him. I didn't have any right _to _be mad at him, but fuck, I was mad at him.

"And a good party?" I scoffed sarcastically, pushing again against his chest, fighting to do the exact opposite. I wanted him closer.

Reading my mind, he pressed into me harder. So hard I could barely breathe.

It was heavenly.

"Well, it looks like you got both. So, now what? What did you want to talk to me about, huh? What was it that could wait?" I shivered as he placed another kiss against the tender bite. Pulling back, he kept his hips snuggled between mine, his dark eyes hard and hypnotizing.

"I was thinking maybe we could … ya know," he grunted, grinding his hardness between my thighs. My pussy fluttered and I barely contained a gasp.

"We could what?" I played dumb, wanting to hear him say it. Needing to hear him say it.

Grinding his hips, he gave a couple of good pumps. Short and to the point, he brought me to the cliff of orgasm. My eyes fluttered with the hollow space between my legs. I wanted him there.

"Was that her?" Letting my head loll back, it banged lightly against the door.

"Her who?" He panted, his fingers hooking into the the band of my panties to slow nudge them down my thighs.

"The blonde," I quipped, removing his hands and pulling the ruined fabric back up. "The one that was hanging all over you."

What if I hadn't shown up tonight?

Would he have fucked her instead?

Groaning, he rested his forehead against my chest, and I basked in his breath. His tongue hot and wet licking between my breasts. Wiggling against his hard length, I imagined how that tongue would feel against more sensitive flesh. I wanted to feel it. I wanted this, wanted him.

Why couldn't he have just come over, answered his door, or for fucks sake, not have invited the damn blonde?

Was he serious?

"I don't want her. I want you," he swore, his hands creeping up to palm my breasts; a perfect handful.

"Yeah well, you got a funny way of showing it," I breathed heavily, trying not to enjoy his oblivious pawing.

Didn't he realize I was pissed?

Turned on and utterly, utterly pissed about it.

Grabbing his hands, I tried to pull them from my chest, but only aided in pulling down the top of my dress.

"Shit, Bella," he cursed, dipping down to take a hardened nipple into his mouth.

_Fuck._

I squirmed as he sucked, letting him barely taste the other, before pushing him back. A soft whimper left my lips, as I watched his puckered ones pop off my flesh, leaving a thin strand of his saliva.

"What if I didn't come tonight, Paul? Would you have come to me, or would you have fucked _her_ instead?" Stepping back, he wiped his mouth, and I took the opportunity to pull up my top.

"What if I say no now? What if I say it's too soon, that I don't want to just mess around?"

Backing away, he sat down once his knees hit the bed. Head in his hands, he fisted his hair.

"I knew it was a mistake writing you those letters."

Completely crushed by the admission, I breathed through the sharp pain in my chest.

All that wasted time.

All those wasted words.

Leaning against the door, I closed then opened my eyes, finding my vision blurred.

The room was spinning.

"I can't be that guy for you. I'm not that guy. I'm the guy that doesn't know when he'll be around, the guy that doesn't know _if_ he'll be around," he yammered, making everything worse. "It's dangerous out there, Bella. Do you understand that? I go out and I don't know when I'm coming back, _if _I'm coming back. Can you honestly tell me that's what you want? You seriously want to get attached to that?"

I already was.

"I'm headed back out tomorrow, Bella. This is all I have to offer; a little bit of time in between runs. And you know what I really want to do with that time?" He asked, releasing his hair to glare up at my silent form still pressed up against the door. "I want to eat. I want to sleep. And I want to fuck."

Standing, he stalked over, flipping the pit in my stomach, as he placed a hand on either side of my head.

"And I want to fuck you," he growled, grabbing my chin and lifting it to look me in the eye. "I don't want to make you my wife," he snarled surprisingly, ripping my pounding heart in two. "I don't need you to miss or mourn me. I just want to fuck you … only you," he stressed. "Is that enough?"

Trailing his fingers down the side of my throat, he waited for it to sink in, letting me think about what I wanted. Only thing was, I couldn't think. Between the storm churning inside my stomach and the hemorrhaging from my heart. I couldn't think at all.

His touch was distracting enough, making me wonder if I could really give him what he asked.

I wanted him; I knew that much.

But I wanted all of him, not just his dick. I didn't want to be a fleeting good time to him, a warm body to toss aside when he finally got bored.

No, that wasn't enough.

"Think I got my answer."

Removing his hands from my tingling skin, he reached around me, jostling the door open to usher me out, and shut himself back up inside. Flimsy and fragile, I let him, palming the chipped wood, as my other hand wrapped around the handle.

I didn't bother knocking when I found it locked, not wanting to make a scene. So after a few moments staring at the closed door, I left.

Unable to think.

Unable to sleep.

Unable to hold back the tears when I stirred with a thunderous warning.

Lying awake in bed, I couldn't bring myself to get up and look, too heartbroken knowing that his truck would be gone by morning.

* * *

Weeks went by.

Halloween quickly passed, but I still felt like a zombie.

Hardly eating.

Little sleeping.

Barely existing.

He was gone nearing a month before his first letter came.

Nothing at first, they were just simple play by plays of where he was, what he was doing, how the weather fared that day. But my heart was an easy, traitorous heart, and it fluttered to life anyway.

A second and third letter came in the same week and they were much of the same thing, only there had been a bad storm. Equipment was ruined, but no lives were lost. Though, I still cried as if there were.

It was torture knowing he was out there thinking of me, not knowing if I was thinking of him. I wanted to him to know that I was, so every night I'd cross the grounds, sit in his rocking chair and look up at what I assumed was the northern star. And I told him. I told him every night that I missed him, and I was thinking about him.

Soon the letters were coming in bundles, scribbled with spontaneous thoughts and feelings.

Every last thought he had, I thought.

Every last feeling he had, I felt.

It was almost as if I were with him in that boat out in the middle of that big, wide pool of blue and green.

I wanted to be.

I would have given up everything to be holed up on that boat and out in the middle of the ocean with him. Even my pride. That self-destroying, paternal gene.

I missed his smile, and his laugh, how they induced mine.

I missed his hands and his heat, how they skimmed and scorched my skin.

I missed him.

Reading over his last letter, I long before realized I was wrong, that I would take whatever he was willing to give.

I would take anything.

It was enough.

_Dear Bella,_

_The mornings are cold here, out in the middle of the Pacific. But the sun keeps me warm enough when sitting in the red rays that reflect off of the surface of the water. It reminds me of your hair, how at first glance it looks brown, but shines red and gold when lit up by a bright beam._

_Anyway, I won't bore you with seafloor depths or number of hand-baited hooks, like I have been. I doubt you want to know how even after just a few days out to sea, the fish start smelling better than the men. I don't need to tell you that you smell better, but I wanted you to know that you do - smell better, that is. Fresh and light like a field full of flowers after the first spring rain._

_And I miss it._

_I miss you._

_Paul_

Folding the letter, I stuffed it back into the envelope just as he chugged down the mudslide of a dirt drive.

Jumping up, I grabbed my chest, as if it could help my heart settle.

I wasn't expecting him since it was still raining, but there he was; pulling up to park, hopping out of his cab to jog across the lawn in the pouring rain.

He didn't ask if he could come up. He didn't ask if I even wanted him to, taking all three steps in one leap and wrapping me up in his soaking, sweatshirt-covered arms.

His mouth was warmer than the rest of him, searing my cold lips with a sweep of his tongue. I melted into him, his sweet, hickory taste. It was only intensified by his scent. Clean and woodsy, like the pungent pine trees littering the surrounding forest floor. He smelled good wet, making me weak, and powerless against him. My heart, she was defenseless.

Pulling back, he chuckled when my mouth went with him, placing an unsealed envelope against my lips instead of his own.

"I wrote you one, last letter."

Smiling against the cool, crisp paper, I took it from his hand.

"What's it say?" I asked, toying with the unsealed flap, wanting to hear something from him. The letters were nice, but I liked his voice better.

Scratching through weeks of growing scruff, he looked down and flicked the edge of the paper.

"Pretty much, I'm an idiot."

Huffing a laugh, he looked abashed, before tightening his grip on my waist, and running the back of his free hand along my neck to tangle his fingers into my hair.

"I should have come to see you first thing, Bella. Told you the truth. That even though I can't be here all the time," closing his eyes, he rested his forehead against mine. "I could still be there for you … I could still call you mine. I want to."

My heart raced with his confession. My eyes burning with what it all meant. Which was, that if I wanted him, I had him - all of him. All his silliness and his smiles. Absent days, weeks, and months out to sea. I had it all. Everything.

"Is that enough?"

One arm wrapped around his waist, I hooked the other around his neck, rising to the tips of my toes, and tangling my fingers into his dripping wet hair. Bringing his lips to mine, I whispered a promise against them.

"More than enough."

* * *

I may extend into a full length fic in the future. If so, this o/s will be replaced with ch. 1 and I'll simultaneously post ch. 2 so, if you follow, you will get a notification. But that's a big 'if.'

Thanks for reading!


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